Shouldn't…but Do

It is hot.  Clouds in the west hint of  thunderstorm, wind over the lake promises humidity instead.

Sweat rolls down my face like tears.  Hardscrabble ground.  Years I spent piling up a  rich facade of compost and nutrient rich top soil washed away in heavy spring rains – revealing original ground.  Rock pocked sandy loam.   What’s here is here.  Up to me to make something of it.  Tough to hoe, even on the level.

For a number of years I have been cultivating a xeric attitude.  Plant for true ground,  right plant – right place, forget fancy stuff that does not endure.    Use resources at hand instead of cultivating landscapes of falsity.  Survival, adaptability, matters.

Except a bit of  lawn.  Rolling green soothes eye and toe.  Mine got away from me last year, weeds smothered.  Weeds returned this year, but I am back.  Persistent toil – holding steady.

Those that know me understand my fondness for garden photography.  My way of giving garden tours that none see in person.  This is not a year for pictures, vignettes – some empty – some still filling with young plants, new ideas.

Sweat equity – heat, work and true ground.

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My garden needs work.  For two growing seasons it soldiered on alone – the help I gave it minimal.

Overgrown, undergrown, thatch that kept water from roots.  A fence breached, rodents and rabbits ran through, tender plants eaten.

It is coming back.  The fence is fixed, containing what is within,  protecting from that without.  Re-bound – assert, restate rightful borders.   Good fences make good neighbors, and good gardens too.

Carefully I cultivate the garden’s own volunteer seedlings, filling empty space with variation already present.  Inexpensive, quiet, make it yourself.  Garden economy.

Rich ground – finding its roots, stretching for sun, watching storms pass, drinking the rain. Mending itself, mending me.  It is good work.

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Salix discolor is a willow indigenous to North America.  Known by its common name Pussy Willow, this native plant holds a place in the minds, and memories, of many.

For that reason, each year, when the catkins on mine are full out – burnished silver, with deep, almost purple heart,  I cut branches, trimming and bundling, to fill my red rubber garden carry-all.

Until they are gone,  I give them away to those I meet – at local schools, people I visit, neighbors – friend and stranger alike.  Always nice to spread a little spring.

Pussy willows produce plentiful, high quality nectar and provide an assist to the first bees and insects of the year.  Underground, their roots are passionately devoted to finding moisture, sometimes entangling plumbing along the way. Above, they grow quickly, and unless pruned, can take the form of a tree, rather than a shrub.

Some years back,  my neglected pussy willow did just that – funneling its energy into two or three scrubby trunks reaching high into the sky.

There is a point, with plants and life, when things are too committed, when form taken doesn’t suit the direction of energy present.  In response,  I pruned my willow to the ground.

Following dramatic change, or restorative prune, any gardener will experience  moments of doubt.  Will it come back, was it too much, did I kill it?

Because nature is rarely so generous, answers never come quickly.  Above ground, worry for the growth that is not forthcoming.  Below ground, below ground – one can never tell.

As it turned out, by the next year that shrub was young again, slim canes reaching skyward, no longer restrained to a form conferred by neglect.

I was out today in the mud, with hacksaw, working on the willow again.  Slowly making room for new growth.  Judiciously removing gnarled, thickened stems that crowd and speak of limitation.

In time the willow will rise from its ground, in multiple ways I can only guess at.  More space, less neglect, sufficient moisture – small, but important things that return life from the underground in spring.

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Last evening, my oldest and I were outside.  He biked the neighborhood, I turned attention to my garden long neglected.

The bird songs that earlier this season frightened me,  now welcome.  Never have a I seen more cardinals, the robins have returned, even the garrulous grackles of purple sheen, have returned.

Each shovel, each still slumbering plant, each garden view, nubby, tactile, present.  The roughness of a brick paver delights bare hand – touch – instead of tunnel vision.

Old grasses, spent lavender wands, woody stems akimbo.  Astringent sage, crushed under snow pack, cut back, fragrant still.

A breathtaking moon rose over my son’s head.  Watch it tonight – at the horizon – both full, and closer to us than any time in the past 18 years.

We talked and wondered at the beauty of this small bit of earth until long after dark. Orion’s belt twinkled as we spun on the driveway in the moonlight.  Intoxicating moonlight.

Far down the road, the first chorus of spring peepers rose.  Gardening at night.  Full moon on the horizon.  Life is good.

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